Bookbinding
We’re crouched together on my bedroom floor and folding pieces of paper, meticulously, ten at a time. Spring has turned to summer and the window unit struggles to cut through the thick air between us. We don’t comment on it.
We emphasize our creases with bone folders, making them permanent. “It’s really all about craft,” he says, more for his benefit than mine. I appreciate the earnestness and nod in support. He once said if he ever lost his eyesight and had to stop making art, he would have nothing else to live for. We share many things, but not this.
We take our sharp awls and surgically pierce exacting holes in the divide. It’s my first time making a book, which makes me more cautious than him, more hesitant. We don’t talk about how he doesn’t want to be with me, how he’s met someone else. As I start sewing my pages together with curved needles, the newly formed spine hugs itself tight and looks just like a backbone.
Fiona Qu is a writer, scientist, and bassoonist living in Boston, MA.